Son, I owe you an apology. I bundled you in the car after our trip to Brean Leisure Park. You started whining about how you were hungry and wanted a drink of water.
I had to make a snap decision. In that moment I couldn’t think of anywhere we could go to eat that would be easy to drive to.
Tired and beleaguered as I was, I unbuckled your seat belt and gestured for you to follow me.
We walked through the doors of the promised land. This is it, this is living, this is the British caravan holiday, apparently. Welcome to Wimpy, son.
I didn’t even know the chain was still going but let me assure you, it’s live and very much kicking in Brean.
I felt like one of those country dads who’d just masterminded his son and heir shooting a pheasant on his 300 acre estate – and then daubing his cheeks with its blood right after the unfortunate bird tumbled from the sky. “Good shot, Tarquin.”
Only his first ‘kill’ was the dirtiest burger known to mankind: a Wimpy.
£1.99 for a Cheeseburger? Surely this couldn’t be that bad. The place was wall to wall full of Brits who all had the same sad look about them, staring into space at the shitty British weather smashing against the wall to wall windows, in droplets of misery.
The burger tasted more processed than an old school 35mm Kodak film. Not even a sorry looking gherkin or brown bit of lettuce to help us Taste The Difference. This was ketchup, orange cheese and the burger itself, that seemed to dissolve in the mouth upon contact with saliva. This ain’t exactly Aberdeen Angus, son.
We ate in silence, peering around at the other miserable faces in there. It was as if everyone else was hating themselves too. If they’d done their Tripadvisor research more thoroughly they might have figured out that all roads in Brean lead to Rome…
The worst thing? He wolfed it down, and smiled the whole time like it was a new concoction from the hallowed kitchens of Heston Blumenthal.
Maybe he knew this was a rite of passage. A significant time in his life; his first dirty burger.